


When the Dealin's Done

by My_floaty_coaty_boy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Asexual Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Demon Deals, Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ruler of Hell Dean Winchester, Slow Build, tbc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 13:24:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16517315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_floaty_coaty_boy/pseuds/My_floaty_coaty_boy
Summary: Dean Winchester makes a deal with a witch that he shouldn't have made.He gets more than he bargained for.





	When the Dealin's Done

Dean sighed heavily as he felt the pull from another summons. He had forgotten how tedious crossroad work could be, but he was in the doghouse with Crowley, and the torture of the repetitive process and gruelling, desperate mortals was better than, well... actual torture.

Honestly, what use were demonic powers if you couldn’t use them to turn a nightclub party from kinda cool to  _ mindblowing _ ? And it’s not like he was slacking--drunk and/or high ravers were prime targets for deals. He was pretty sure one guy traded his soul for a shorter bathroom queue. Not that Dean cold remember most of it--he’d been pretty out of it himself by the time Crowley found him and dragged him back to Hell.

Regardless, here he was now: slumming it with crossroads deals until Crowley found a way to surgically remove the stick from his own ass.

He did nothing to fight the pull of the summoning, but was still a little dizzy when he appeared in the centre of the dusty dirt-track road. It was dark, and a million starts lit the sky, like pairs of glaring eyes in the shadows. The moon provided ample light from its place hanging in the night, like a heavenly spotlight, illuminating the darkness in which such dastardly, evil deeds take place. 

The area was deserted; nothing but cropped corn fields for miles. If there weren’t a demon trap carved into the dry, cracked earth beneath him, he would have thought that the universe had made a mistake. He turned, scoping out the area, and his eyes fell onto a short, feminine figure, standing barefoot in the dust just outside the reasonably-sized circle. The woman’s hair was long and as red as fire, and her eyes were a wide, stunned blue. Her stomach was round with child, and Dean thought she must be nearing the time of birth.

“I-I didn’t think that would actually  _ work _ .” Her voice was shaky, as were her hands. Good:

Dean would think her an idiot if she wasn’t a little bit scared. He might’ve felt guilty claiming the soul of an idiot. Although, it could be argued that anyone willing to sell their soul for something that would lose its meaning in ten years was a little lacking in smarts.

He didn’t outwardly show any of this. Instead, he simply said, “Well, it did. What do you want?” 

The woman ignored his question and spoke her own. “With whom am I dealing? Do you have names?”

Dean scoffed. “‘Course we have names.” At the woman’s expectant expression, he sighed. “Dean.”

“Hello, Dean.” the woman’s expression was sullen, now, as if learning the name of the demon before her suddenly made this seem all the more real.

“...Well? What do you want?” 

The woman exhaled slowly, and her hand reflexively fell to her stomach, stroking it lightly.

“I...I need protection.” 

“Protection? From who?” Dean raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“The townsfolk say I’m a witch--I’m afraid they’re going to hurt us.” Her lip quivered, and she blinked away tears. 

“Are you?” Dean’s voice was gruff. He didn’t like working with witches: they were slippery, and always maintained layers of lies.

“ _ No! _ It’s just--Well, the father, he…” She stroked her stomach again, subconsciously, and her eyes fell, “he was a traveller--he didn’t stay, but...he showed me things. Told me of...inhuman creatures like you. He showed me...magic. When he left, I remained, as did his power. They blamed it on me. For months, I haven’t left my home. I can’t...I can’t do it anymore.” 

“So...protection.” Dean grunted, stepping closer to the edge of the circle. The woman seemed to struggle between stepping back and holding her stance, but settled for standing her ground. He leant forward to be at her eye level, and smiled.

“Yes. I want enough power to protect us...I know the price. My soul-- _ I’ll gladly give it up for the child _ .”

Dean thought for a moment, then straightened up. “No.”

“ _ No? _ You can’t say no! I brought you here!” She stepped forward, and in doing so, made her mistake. As soon as her foot scuffed the dirt, and the trap, the demon grabbed her and pulled her to him. 

“No; I don’t want your soul. It’s not enough. One soul isn’t enough for two people--especially not yours; you think I couldn’t tell? That  _ bullshit _ about your ex showin’ you magic? I don’t buy it. Your soul is  _ damaged _ , it’s hellbound anyway. I want something with  _ worth _ .”

The witch faltered, but sighed, pulling away. “Fine. But if you’re not going to give me protection, I want  _ power _ . Give me immortality.”

“ _ Invulnerability. _ You can die, but you can’t get killed. You get ten years.”

“I want a hundred.” Her eyes were set, her sneer was vicious, her fragile illusion shattered completely.

“ _ Ten _ .” His eyes turned a demonic black, his snarl a little more animalistic.

“A hundred, name your price.” 

So, intimidation was getting him nowhere, he aimed for preservation. “I want  _ him _ .”

“...Him?”

“A newborn soul, with the capability for magic, but undisrupted purity? Easily worth a hundred years. I will return for him on his eighteenth birthday, generous of me to give you that long, and take him for my own.” Truthfully, he gave eighteen years simply because he couldn’t claim a child’s soul; it was forbidden, some ancient law of God, carved into their beings.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell slack. She stroked her belly again, and whispered, mostly to herself, “‘ _ him’. A boy.”  _

Just when he thought he’d won, that she’d back off,  __ she grabbed his hand and shook it resolutely. Her expression was cold. “Fine. One pure soul. Deal.” 

“The boy will be marked from birth: if  _ anything _ corrupts his soul before I can claim it, the deal is off, and I’ll be back for you.”

She nodded once, and stepped away, muttering a banishing spell. No matter. He would have left anyway.

_ Well, fuck. Crowley’s gonna kill me _ .

  
  


The witch--Naomi, her name was, gave birth three weeks later.  The hospital had refused to let her in on the grounds of the town’s suspicion, claiming that letting her inside would endanger other patients and expose them to the power of Hell. And when she saw the child, the witch feared them right: The child, the boy, was healthy, and had hair as black as the night he’d been given away. His eyes were even bluer than his mothers’. But he bore a mark of Hell: from his back splayed two black, bird-like wings. They shook when she brushed them, and when the child cried, the glass in her windows fractured. Between the shoulderblades, where the wings began, was a small black mark, like a seven, with two small lines, beneath and parallel to the horizontal. The same one the demon had on his arm in a scarred pink. 

As Naomi comforted her child, nursing him until he soothed, the wings relaxed against his back calmly. She named the child Castiel, in the hope that any heavenly connection would keep him innocent, angelic, that she could keep her power.

She knew the demon wouldn’t make it easy.

  
  


_ 5 years and 273 days: The Food Cart Incident  _

Castiel was five-and-three-quarters when he went to the village.

He’d snuck into town while his mother was at the market, curious to see the people and places he was forbidden to visit. He took an apple from a vendor’s stall that he was too short to see over, leaving a few coins in its place that he’d received when he lost his first tooth. He ran his tongue over the gap sometimes, just to feel if the new one had appeared. 

He sat underneath the draping cover of a confectioner’s stall, eating the fruit and watching the people of the village as they ambled from vendor to vendor, buying wares and food and chatting amicably with each other.

Until a worker on the stall he’d stationed himself under ducked to reach for a crate for a customer.

The girl shrieked and jumped back and Castiel, fearing punishment, scurried out from under the table cover and away as fast as his little legs could carry him as his dark wings flared out in a fight to keep him balanced, making his coat ride up. He heard screams, but didn't want to know why. 

He ran all the way home, and when he got there, he hid among the flowers until Naomi came home. The smell of lavender followed him all day.

A few nights after that, his mother awoke him in the early hours, pulling him to her and fleeing their home. He didn’t understand why the house was so hot, or why the orange light that bit at his mother’s skin soothed his own, but he helped her when she moved them into a new home, in a new town, far away. 

 

_ 7 years and 243 days: The Flying Fail _

 

When Castiel was seven, and his mother was asleep, he crawled up on his bed and jumped. His wings worked hard to maintain his lift, and unlike every other time he’d tried this, this time, it worked.

He concentrated hard on the movement of his wings as they lifted him higher and higher until he could brush his fingers against the wooden beams in the ceiling. The door opened, and he skipped a beat. 

He fell from height as his mother yelled a spell, making him fall slowly, like a balloon. When she caught him, she broke the spell and glared. 

“Castiel, you mustn’t do that. These wings are a curse, and if you use them, you could endanger yourself.” She scolded him, and continued to do so until she left for her work again. She didn’t come back for three days.

Castiel cried. The wings were a part of him; how could they be cursed? 

But, he was a good son, he listened to his mother, and he stopped flying until he was twelve.

 

_ 10 years and 329 days: Boooreddddd _

 

Castiel sighed, letting his head drop back against the wall, a little harder than he meant to. Naomi was working again. She left sporadically, often for a few days, leaving him to cook, clean, and live alone for most of the time. He was forbidden from flying, and he obeyed the rules his mother set for him. They kept him safe, and good. 

But he was bored.

_ Movement _ .

A ball. Small, yellow, flew over the fence. He sat up, staring at it as if it would grow legs. It didn’t, so he got up and toed on his shoes. He ran outside, grabbing the ball.

“Hey, you!” The voice startled him, and he dropped it. He looked around, but saw no source. The voice spoke again. “I can hear you over there! Gimme my ball back, please!”

He looked down at the ball, then up at the top of the fence. 

Castiel threw the ball. 

“Thanks!” The voice giggled, then paused. “You wanna play?” 

A fence panel swung to the side, big enough for him to squeeze through, and a girl grinned at him. She had a toot was missing, and dirt on her face. 

“Woah, you got wings!” Her mouth dropped when she saw him, and he blushed self-consciously. “Are you...magic?” 

He shook his head. “‘M not allowed to do magic.”

Charlie pouted, and for a moment he feared she would stop talking to him, leave him alone again, but after a second, her smile was back. “Wanna play catch?”

 

_ 12 years and 92 days: Goodbye _

 

Naomi worked evenings, giving her time during the day to teaching Castiel to control some of his budding magic. She never taught him to use it: not in any way that mattered. But teaching him how to safely put a damper on it was essential. 

Instead of magic, she’d taught him skills: how to sew, how to cook, how to maintain a useful garden--herbs, root vegetables, the like. How to play poker, chess, craps. He learned maths, and spelling, and geography. They’d cook together, then shed leave, letting him arrange his own sleep schedule.

But when she was away, in those hours between afternoon and evening, he snuck into their neighbours garden and up into their treehouse.

This was where he learned to socialize, how to tell jokes. He learned how to draw, and paint. To break the rules. To be a kid. He learned how to have fun. These were his most important lessons. His tutor was Charlie, the girl he’d played catch with two years ago and had since talked to almost every day. She was funny, and her wit was quicker than anyone’s he knew (granted, that list was a short one). Her hair was a dark orange, her skin a healthy pink underneath the  perpetual dirt she found herself in, searching for bugs to show him.

She didn’t have a father, but the two women who cared for her were kind, if stern, and had a way of knowing exactly when to interrupt them.

Once, when he was painting, and she was reading to him from a little blue book of poems, she stopped and said, “you’re my best friend, you know that, right?”

He looked at her. He didn’t know what that meant, so he asked.

She frowned. “A friend is...someone you can count on. Someone who makes you laugh...and feel good about yourself. Someone you can tell anything.”

He nodded in understanding, and told her she was his best friend too. 

When the adults were away, Charlie would climb onto the trampoline she’d got for her birthday, using Castiel’s shoulders as a boost, and jump as high as she could, encouraging him to match her height with his wings. 

The last day he ever saw her, she fell from the trampoline. 

He caught her with a too-bright pulse of blue energy and they fell lightly to the ground together. 

But they hadn’t been unwitnessed: One of Charlie’s mothers, a quick-witted woman named Pamela, had seen them, and the light from Castiel’s magic had sent her blind. Charlie had had her eyes closed, braced for impact, but Pamela had seen it all. And it was the last thing she’d ever see. 

This was why he wasn’t allowed to use magic: he hurt people, and Naomi had predicted it. She said he couldn’t fly because his wings were cursed--maybe it wasn’t just his wings. After the incident, Castiel stopped sneaking into the other garden. He planted bushes in front of the loose fence panel to stop it moving. 

He never saw his friend again--he couldn’t risk it.

 

_ 13 years and 58 days: Puberty’s a bitch--especially when you’ve got wings _

 

Castiel disliked being a teenger. His voice jerked and squeaked, he smelled  _ constantly _ , and he felt sweaty all the time. What’s worse, his growth spurt hit early. 

But it wasn’t just his height that changed, oh no: his wings, small and fluffy as they had been before, became angular, and the feathers got pointier and more defined. They got longer, larger, until they were easily double his height, when stretched. They were built for speed, but a little skinny from the lack of usage. 

These were all changes he secretly didn’t mind.

He would sneak out at night, through his window, and launch himself as high as he could get, until he was sure anyone walking below wouldn’t see him. Then, he would fly. 

He would soar in wide arcs and powerful dives, building up his dexterity and reactions, not to mention the muscles of his wings. It took a lot to launch from a stand into the air without running, and the results quickly showed.

Until they didn’t:

He woke up one morning, around his 15th birthday,  with a significant absence of 

feathers. He could feel them there, where they’d always been, but when he looked, they...weren’t.

He screamed. His voice broke. The windows cracked and the lightbulb shook.

Suddenly Naomi was in the doorway, her eyes wild, a spell on her lips. But when she saw him, she stopped, grow furrowed. “C...Castiel? Where are...where are your wings?”

Castiel didn’t reply; he was too busy trying to control his panicked breathing. He tried to get up, and fell over. He couldn’t balance without his wings, and while he could feel the fluffier, downy feathers against the skin of his back, the weight of them was gone. His mother caught him, and guided him back to sit on the bed. She knelt to be on his level.

“Castiel, what happened?” Her voice was calm, and it helped him measure his own breathing.

“I...I don’t know, they just...mom, what if they never come back?” He met her eyes. He knew she disliked his wings, but enough to banish them? She thought they were cursed, but they were still part of  _ him _ . She hugged him. 

“I’m sure they will. I know...I know you haven’t flown since you were little, but...can you now?”

His brow furrowed in confusion, but he stood shakily. Naomi stepped back to give him room and he did what he did almost every night:

He set his feet apart, bent his knees slightly, and brought his wings down. 

A pen pot on his desk, the other side of the room, fell over. But he was too busy watching his feet, now off the ground.

His wings were there, they still influenced the world, but...they were invisible.

 

It took three days for them to reappear. It was during lunch, and he fell off his chair. Naomi laughed at him until he flicked her with the tips of his feathers.   

 

_ 16 years and 275: Stir Crazy _

 

He stared at the clock on the wall, looking at the upside down numbers from his position on the couch, his head hanging over the edge. 

Naomi had gone out. Charlie was outside, so he couldn’t go and fly. 

He wanted to try some magic. 

Castiel’s eyes flicked to the clock on the mantle to a pen on the table in front of him, and he rolled over onto his front, using his hands to hold him up while his wings followed through with the movement to drape over him like a feathery blanket. He stared at the pen willing it to move. His eyes narrowed in concentration. 

Nothing. 

Nothing.

Movement. He gasped. The pen had moved--it had rolled, just a little. He concentrated harder, and the second he did, the pen shot across the room, and into the soil of an aloe vera plant. 

He laughed.  

Castiel spent the day trying to draw on a sketchbook that was five feet away. 

 

_ 17 years and 364 days: The Final Day _

 

Castiel was done. 

Naomi hadn’t been home in a _ month.  _

He hadn’t talked out loud in a month. He’d tried going outside, but people kept bumping into his wings. It hurt, so he avoided it. 

He hadn’t seen another person in three weeks. The people of the town knew of him; the boy in the house who disappeared, who never left. A recluse, a witch. They whispered about him, said he was going to hell, that he worshipped the devil, that he got it from his mother, the woman who sold black magic cures to people so they wouldn’t rat her out. 

So he’d stayed inside, away from prying eyes.

He’d tried to entertain himself: played games of solitaire until just looking at a deck made him want to scream. He baked, he gardened. He made himself a scarf, and a jumper, that he could wear on his birthday. He did all of this alone. Like always.

Castiel was done.

 

Naomi was celebrating. She’d made it: eighteen years, tomorrow, and she will have raised a perfectly pure child, a soul for the demon to take so she could finally gain immortality. She ordered another round for the bar, soaking in the jubilation of her companions. She looked at the watch of the guy she was talking to. 

23:46. Castiel would already be asleep. She’d done it. 

The demon would be collecting its soul in a few hours. 

She’d be free.

 

Castiel wasn’t asleep, though.

He wanted to learn magic. He’d  _ begged  _ for it. He’d gone through his mother’s spellbooks, and found what he wanted.

The circle he drew was large, almost the entire kitchen floor, in bright blue paint. His mother would go crazy, but he didn’t care. He switched on music, something loud and with a strong beat to guide him as he drew the details of the trap on the floor. He hid his wings and looked at the clock.

_ 24:28.  _ Half an hour and he’d be an adult, he could leave. He could make friends the normal way, maybe with Charlie again. 

He uttered the spell.

He waited.

 

The crossroad demon sighed. Deals were tedious at the best of times, but she was particularly bored and anything was better than hanging around when the king of Hell was in a funk. He said he was ‘waiting to cash out’, and everyone knew why: the deal that led him to killing the last king of Hell was about to come to fruition. Every demon in the place knew it, and she wanted out. It was suffocating. 

But when she saw who summoned her, she knew she should have stayed. 

He didn’t even get a word out before she fled to fetch the King. 

 

To say that Castiel was confused would be an understatement. He summoned something, a demon, only to have her run off as soon as she saw him. He didn’t even really want to make a deal, and maybe she sensed that, and thought he wasn’t worth her time. 

After a few moments of silence and stillness, Castiel sighed and shut the book, kicking the outline of the circle in a moment of anger and scuffing the edge. beginning to clear away the things he used to do the summoning ritual. His mother would probably be home soon, and there’s no telling what she’d do if she saw this. He glanced at the clock. 24:55--He wouldn’t bother scrubbing the floor, yet. He reached to the back of the cupboard next to the fridge, and pulled out the last of the cakes he’d baked. Most of them had turned out spoiled, gross, because in a state of out-of-it loneliness he’d used salt instead of sugar. A lot of salt. 

But he didn’t plan on eating it. 

He fished a candle, one of the little ones with the green and white stripes, out from the draw next to the cutlery draw and stuck it in the centre of the cupcake. Placing it on the floor and sitting inside the circle, legs criss-crossed and elbows on his knees, Castiel concentrated on the wick of the candle, forcing whatever magic he was capable of to it.

The wick turned black and caught alight with a flame much too big for the candle. 

The wax leaked and the top of the cake burned.

Castiel sighed, extinguishing the flame and starting to pick the melted wax off the cake, ignoring the heat--maybe it was the magic, maybe something else, but he’d never been bothered by heat, not even in the fire in their old house, when he was five.

12:59…

00:00.

..Happy birthday, Cas--

 

“Well this is depressing.” 

Castiel jumped, staggering to his feet almost dropping the cake in his hand.

The man sitting on the counter looked a few years older than himself, but he had a youthful glint in his green eyes and a mischievous smile. His freckles helped, too. 

“Who...A-are you a demon?”

“What gave it away?” The smirk on his face remained, but his  green eyes were overtaken by an all-encompassing black. Just for a moment, but then they were back. “An’ I gotta say, thanks for breakin’ the trap. They can get awfully...constricting.”

The demon slid off the counter and slunk over to him. Just like his mother, those years ago, he didn’t back up.

“What’s your name?”

“Dean.”

“I’m--”

“I know who you are, Castiel.”

“...Why are you here?” 

Dean chuckled disbelievingly, suddenly back in front of the countertop. “You’re kidding, right? You summoned me to make a deal. What. Do. You. Want?” 

Castiel’s shoulders fell, as did his head. After a moment, he met Dean’s eyes again. “I...I want a friend.” His voice was quiet, a whisper in the faint breeze of the night.

“...A what? Come again, buddy?” Dean stepped closer to him, and Castiel stood finally, brushing his clothes and hands of dust. 

“I...I was forced to move here, and...I can’t leave ‘cause...well, according to folks around here, I’m going to Hell anyway, so I may as well get to know the neighbours, right?” In the light of the moon through the large windows, Dean saw Castiel’s cheeks redden slightly, and the mortal let their eye contact slip momentarily. 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “So...Let me get this straight: You...will sell your soul--to me, a demon, from Hell itself, due for collection in a decade, and all you want...is a  _ drinking buddy?”  _

Castiel shook his head, and Dean relaxed. Until Castiel spoke again. “No, not a drinking buddy; I don’t drink.”

Dean sighed. “OK, well, what kinda ‘friend’ do you want? A cute girl you got the butterflies for?”

“You’ll do. You’re funny. But I don’t want to sell my soul.”

Dean cackled. “That’s not how that works, buddy. You want something, I get your soul.”

“Oh.” Castiel hummed.

“OK, well, now you know the price, you wanna up the product?” Dean searched his eyes, the doubt in them clear as a virgin in a strip club.

“Uhm...I-I don’t...I’m sorry, I don’t want to make a deal.”

“No?” Dean shook his head, pouting. “Well, I’ll just be going--”

“Please.” Castiel cut him off, shocking him out of his condescending attitude. “I...I know it’s not...your shtick, or whatever, but...Can you stay? For a bit? It’s just...I haven’t talked to someone in, like, a month, and it’s my birthday…”

The demon considered him, pretending to weigh up any pros and cons. In reality, he wasn’t going to leave for anything. This kid was his out, his passage into the mortal world, whether he knew it yet or not. Eventually, he sighed. He already owned his soul, what difference would it make if he hung around for a while?

So, he sat on the counter again. “You gonna eat that?” He nodded at the cake.

Castiel shook his head. “It’s gross, you don’t want it.”

Dean snorted and snatched the muffin from him, ripping a bit off and chewing with his mouth open.

He pulled a face and stuck out his tongue, and the muffin chunk hit the floor in a pile of wet.

Castiel sneered. “I take it back, you’re not funny; you’re gross.” 

Dean grunted and smiled sarcastically at him. “Least I don’t make food ‘s gross ‘s that. If you can call that ‘food’. How much  _ salt _ is in that?”

“Too much. You bake, then? Wouldn’t’ve pegged you as the type.” There was mischief in his eyes now, and Dean couldn’t hide his own grin.

“Yeah, but don’ tell ‘nyone that. I have a reputation.”

“Reputation as what?”

“Oh.”

The voice startled them both this time, and the pair looked over at the door.

Naomi stood in the doorway, slowly removing her long gloves. “Witch.” Dean greeted her, coldly.

“Mother? Do...do you know him?” Castiel looked between them, nervously.

Dean glanced at him for a moment, smirk sliding quickly back into place. “We’ve met. And I’m  _ so _ sorry, Witch, but your kid summoned me; he isn’t a pure soul. That was the deal.”

Naomi opened her mouth to speak but wasn’t able to begin, because Castiel spoke first. “ _ What _ ? That...You made a deal? For  _ my  _ soul?” 

The pair looked at him, and Dean flinched, taking a few steps back. “What the  _ fuck _ are those?!” 

In his moment of surprise, Castiel had lost control of his wings, launching them into the visible spectrum.

“What do you mean, ‘ _ what are those _ ? You said he’d be marked for Hell, I assumed you’d recognise it!” Naomi squawked.

Dean rolled up his flannel sleeve and shoved his arm towards her, pointing with his other hand, which Castiel had only just noticed now had a gross-looking knife, seemingly made out of a jaw. On his arm was a mark, the length of Castiel’s longest finger, like a seven, with two lines parallel to the horizontal. “I meant  _ this!  _ Those aren’t of Hell! They’re…” He trailed off, but before either of the others could contribute, he began again, rolling his sleeve down and gripping his knife. “You didn’t know his father. You  _ said _ his father taught you magic. Was any of it Enochian, by chance?”

Naomi’s gasp was minute, but the demon caught it. He ran a hand through his hair angrily, turning away from both of them briefly, anly to spin back. “ _ Great _ . So, what, I own the soul of an Angel, now?  _ Fuck _ .”

“ _ Half  _ Angel. Otherwise you’d have known.” Naomi’s voice was shaky, her face sullen as she leant heavily against the doorframe. “I...I gave away an Angel. I’m going to Hell--for  _ nothing _ , I could have just...he would have given me…” She trailed off and looked up at Castiel, as if she’d never truly seen him.

“...You...I trusted you. And you do this…? Is this why I wasn’t allowed to do magic? Because you had to keep me  _ clean _ ?”

“Well, can’t you just break the deal?”

“ _ No!”  _ Dean snapped. “You wanted this, you got it. You lose the Angel, I get what I asked for.” 

“Or how about I get a say in this?” Castiel asked.

Dean chuckled coldy, waving away his question. “Sorry, buddy, this is between me an’ her.”

“But it’s  _ my _ life!”

“It’s  _ not _ your deal. Be quiet and stay out of this.” Naomi shushed him harshly, and Dean’s brow furrowed.

“Cas, c’mon. We’re going.”

“But--”

The demon grabbed his arm and suddenly they were gone.

 

Castiel had flown before, of course, but this was different. He wasn’t in control, and everything felt...different. Wind whipped at his skin, yanking his clothes and threading itself through his hair, gripping him tightly. The demon’s grip on him was stronger, though, and they fell together through the air. Dean met his eyes and yelled something that Castiel couldn’t hear. A second later, bony, leathery wings appeared from his back, splayed open and catching the wind, forcing him to slow almost immediately. Before he could let go of Castiel’s arm, the Angel copied him, fanning his wings out.

Suddenly, they weren’t falling anymore. 

The room was dark, lit only by candles and some pitch white beams filtering through thin barred windows near the ceiling. The room had a bed, large and luxurious, and a desk with a tall-backed chair, paper laid out and pencils and pens in a pot to the left.

Castiel looked over these details, and over the hash, unpainted brick of the walls and the deep red of the rug against the cold stone floor, and then he looked to Dean, wary of being too loud. “Where are we?”

“Hell, ‘course. You’ll stay here. ‘M in the next room, ‘f ya need me.”

“Wait...I’m s-staying here?”

Dean nodded. “Where’d you think you’d stay?”

“I...I don’t...I don’t really know, I just assumed...Well, I just found out I was doomed to Hell, I assumed I’d be...somewhere more...painful.”

Dean frowned, seemingly troubled. “You’ve done nothing wrong. And...It’s not like we could do anything to you, bein’ an Angel, an’ all. I thought you’d be more comfy here, but, then again, if you’d rather have something a little more painful, I can--”

“No! No, this is fine! Good! I-I’m good here!” 

Dean laughed, but Castiel didn’t really feel it. “Well, OK, then!”

There was silence for a beat, as Castiel tried to absorb everything that had happened in these short hours. 

The demon opened his mouth to speak again, but a shout cut him off. He flinched minutely, and turned to the door. “I have to go. I’ll be back soon, though--don’t leave this room, ‘kay?”

“Well, you can’t just keep me here--”

But he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> comment, tell me what you think! I will be writing more of this, but i have like 7 million WIPS atm so bear with me


End file.
